


Fashioned for Love

by lizimajig



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Boy that tag gets more and more prescient every day, F/M, Fluff, Gimme all ya jonsa babies, I'm not sorry, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, Jonsa babies - Freeform, Not Beta Read, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, and jon snow is also thirsty, blatant wish fulfillment, but i'm bad at porn so have some feelings, but then haven't we all, canon made some bad decisions, i got your schmoop, if i were more skilled there would be porn in here, jon snow has too much honor and not enough brain cells, jonsa, sansa is a thirsty bitch, shameless shippy canon addition, this fic is so extra i almost titled it ''guac'', tormund is... tormund, you want your schmoop?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 12:07:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18916678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizimajig/pseuds/lizimajig
Summary: "What does the Queen in the North want with a common traitor and queenslayer?" he asks. He hadn't been expecting an answer, not really, and even though his blackest parts might have thought it -- wished it,willedit -- he's certainly not expecting a kiss like this, like she is a woman dying of thirst and he is the last stream in Westeros. And he leans into it; she can have every last piece if it means she lives.There is no innocence in this kiss. All of their innocence is gone. "Being queen is much less sweet without my king," she murmurs, and his chest is fit to burst because he knows she means him.Five times Jon Snow comes to Winterfell, one time he stays, and the things he leaves behind.





	Fashioned for Love

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I don't know, okay? It just happened. I'm a Babies Ever After type of gal sometimes, sue me. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ If you're like me and just wanted Jonsa back in Winterfell, making Starks, and being all about that Northern independence, please enjoy. It's not my best work but it is done, and I had to fight a lot of my internal checking mechanisms. If D&D can sell a story that isn't coherent to premium cable, I can certainly post one that is at least emotionally consistent on the internet for free.
> 
> Anyway... this is unapologetically fluffy and may edge into overwrought but I don't really care anymore. XD If regular fluff is an ice cream sundae, this is one of those ridiculously expensive ice cream sundae dessert at posh restaurants that come with shit like gold flakes and you have to order three days in advance of your visit. Be kind to yourself and brush your teeth y'all!

**i. 8**

It's nearly two years after his exile when Jon returns to Winterfell for the first time.

It's only twenty-one hours, weather allowing, from the Wall to Winterfell, and Jon spends them all nervous and silent. The others pretend not to notice, and even Tormund doesn't poke fun, except once to say, "How's it feel to head home?" with a gleam in his bright blue eyes.

Jon doesn't answer. Winterfell's not his home, not anymore. His place is at the Wall, serving his King and Queen in the North. Serving his time. So he's not going home. He's visiting the North's capital, to mediate between the Northern lords and the Free Folk.

(He'd tried to avoid it, but they'd insisted -- _You are both, Jon Snow._ )

So the others let him be in his thoughts, his only constant companion Ghost, who walks beside him the entire way. 

When they ride through the gate, his stomach twists and he feels as though he is going to retch. But that wouldn't be very befitting for a leader, so he tamps down his nerves. He's grateful for the chance to kneel before the Queen, there, in the yard of Winterfell, because he doubts if he could stand before her.

"Rise," she says, her words music to his ears. He looks first, and most of his worries dissipate like snow on a summer day. She is tall, radiant, and more beautiful than he remembers. If she holds any grudge, there's no sign of it in her eyes or in her smile. He does as she commands and tries not to look quite so undone as he feels when she embraces him.

The spell is broken when Ghost gives a great _wuff_ that makes them jump. Sansa laughs. "And yes, you, too, Ghost," she says, and gives him an affectionate scratch behind his remaining ear and under his chin. Sansa laughs harder when she is rewarded for her attentions with a big sloppy kiss. Seven hells, that they should all live to see a day where he was jealous of his dog. But she is smiling, and that is enough to liberate his smile. 

He'd worried they would have nothing to say to each other and the whole affair would be miserable, but she chatters at him all throughout the small welcoming feast, telling him about rebuilding Winterfell, asking his opinion as though he was still a part of daily life there. As if he were the king to her queen, and it was theirs to rule over. The illusion is shattered when one of the new Northern lords he doesn't recognize asks for his Queen's attention over some "personal" matters. 

He is a fool.

He excuses himself, and no one stops him. He somehow doubts they would, though few of those left were familiar to him. The battlements were empty, as he thought they might be. Anyone not minding the gates would be feasting, and the privacy of being high up in the cold air would tame his hot blood. His breath clouds with each exhale, and though he loses track of time, he knows he must have been up there for some time, for Sansa comes to find him. "I thought you might be up here," she says.

 _Hells._ "Is there something wrong downstairs?" he asks.

"Not unless you count Tormund trying to outdrink Lord Glover in a bid to impress Brienne," she replies, a smile in her tone and no doubt on her face, but he can't bring himself to check. "I came to find you, Jon," she adds, a little more softly as she moves close enough to him that he can feel her body heat. 

"I'm bad company, I'm afraid," he answers.

"Why do you say so?" 

He doesn't reply right away. "I fear if Tormund's drinking to impress Brienne he'll be of no use to us come morning."

"I fully expect most of the people in the hall will be of no use to anyone until sometime in the midafternoon tomorrow."

She can't possibly be insinuating anything. But he looks over to her, and her blue eyes are luminous and look at him as though he is the sun itself. The longer he holds her gaze, the more sure that she is and that he shouldn't. "Sansa--"

"It was always supposed to be you, Jon." She looks sad for a moment, before continuing. "I meant it when they said they lost their king."

"If it was supposed to be me, it would have been."

"It would have been you if you had listened to us after the Long Night," she says, cutting.

He gives a short laugh that sounds like the bark of a wolf. "Gods, woman, your tongue is sharp. Did you bring me here to chastise me?"

"If I wanted to chastise you, I could have brought you here a long time ago," she informs him, and he's forced to reflect on the truth of that for a moment. She relents and puts her hand on his arm. "I brought you here because… I missed you."

"What does the Queen in the North want with a common traitor and queenslayer?" he asks. He hadn't been expecting an answer, not really, and even though his blackest parts might have thought it -- wished it, _willed_ it -- he's certainly not expecting a kiss like this, like she is a woman dying of thirst and he is the last stream in Westeros. And he leans into it; she can have every last piece if it means she lives.

There is no innocence in this kiss. All of their innocence is gone. "Being queen is much less sweet without my king," she murmurs, and his chest is fit to burst because he knows she means him.

He doesn't know how they find the Queen's chambers. Their feet know the way and mayhap the ghosts lead them there. It's a night spent together, bodies tangled together, pleasure mixing with the bitterness that they know will come with the day. He tries to make sure her joy outweighs her knowledge that this will end. 

They are there for four days following. The nights are theirs. A tentative agreement between the Lords and the Free Folk is reached, and they will meet again in a year to renew.

Neither of them know that when Jon leaves again for the Wall with Tormund and the others that a child has taken root in Sansa's womb. 

\---

**ii. 7**

A year passes slowly, and yet somehow fast.

News travels slowly in the North in winter, but Jon finally hears the good news about ten months since they left Winterfell: the Queen in the North has given birth to a healthy young prince. It takes him by such surprise that he nearly takes his own foot off swinging an axe while splitting logs. "Crow!" Tormund shouts. "It's not that cold, your toes can't be bothering you that much."

The women relaying the news laugh, and Jon blushes a crimson that would have made any Lannister proud. He wonders how hard Tyrion would laugh to hear this predicament.

He waits for a time, to hear from Sansa, and when nothing comes, accepts that maybe the new Prince of the North is not his get. Maybe it's better that way, with only one oath broken, and no other connection. He'll get to Winterfell with the others in a couple moons' time and see that she's taken a husband and consort, someone who can give her heirs to the North, and that will be that.

They ride into Winterfell as they did the year previous, and instead of being greeted by Sansa and the court, they are greeted by Brienne, Podrick, and a cadre of others. Tormund smiles widely at their welcoming committee, particularly Brienne, but she makes no move to return the gesture. "Welcome to Winterfell," she intones, very officially. "The Queen regrets she is unable to greet you personally. She will break bread in the evening with you all. For now, Podrick will see to your needs. You--" she looks at Jon, "--will come with me."

It's hard not to feel a little like he's in trouble, but Brienne takes him up into the keep in silence. "How is the Queen?" he asks. "Is she well?"

"Her Grace is the picture of health and happiness," she answers easily, which doesn't give him much to go on. He glances up and sees the hint of a smile on the knight's face. "She's very eager for you to meet someone."

His stomach hurts, and he can't pinpoint why.

Brienne takes him to the queen's solar. It still has its large desk that sits under the windows, and the shutters are wide open to admit the midday sun. Sansa sits on a skin rug in front of the fire, a cradle he recognizes beside her. He once peered into that very cradle and welcomed Sansa into the world as his half-sister, and now he would be welcoming…

Sansa raises her eyes, and smiles. She looks tired but the happiest he's ever seen her. Brienne leaves without a further word, and he freezes in the middle of the floor. "Jon," she greets him warmly, "Come meet Robb."

His breath catches in his throat and tears spring to his eyes. Working his gloves off his hands, he comes to the other side of the cradle and falls to his knees in a daze. The young Robb has a shock of auburn hair, and though his eyes are closed, Jon can imagine that they'll be that Tully blue that he'd spent many nights dreaming about. All in all, in that moment he's the very picture of the brother they'd lost. "He's beautiful." He nearly chokes on his words, so in awe is he. "Is he…"

"Is he what?" she prompts him gently.

Jon doesn't know how to ask the question brewing inside him, born out of fears and doubts he can't completely answer for. "Have you married since I saw you last?" he asks, the phrasing every bit as awkward and inelegant as he'd predicted. She should expect it, by now, words and niceties were and would seemingly always be his weak point.

But Sansa doesn't cool, only smiles, beguiling. "I have no consort," she concedes, and leaned over to pick Robb out of the cradle. He snuffles briefly and then snuggles into his mother, fat fists curled under his chin. "This is Robb Stark. His father is a wolf -- a White Wolf," she completes playfully, "who came to me in the skin of a crow."

She places Robb in his arms, who squirms and for a moment, Jon is afraid he is going to squall -- he, who has yelled at a wight dragon with no other weapon on his person, is afraid the boy -- _his son_ will cry out. But it is he who begins to weep, when Robb's eyes flit open and show a steel grey, same as his grandsire's -- same as Jon's.

It makes no sense, that after all this time it is what unseats him, and he starts to cry, foolishly. But he can't stop, and soon Robb is squawking as well, and Sansa is trying to comfort both of them. Her son -- their son -- is the easier of them to quiet. He can't stop weeping, but he also can't look away from the red-haired, grey-eyed boy in his arms. The babe settles, knowing his mother is near, and his own breathing slows. "Gods, Sansa," he finally manages.

One of her hands is on Robb's head, and the other traces the trails his tears have made down his cheek into his beard. "I knew from the moment you returned from Dragonstone -- no, before that, when you left, when you kissed me goodbye in the yard," she says, tenderly. "I knew you were the only one I ever wanted to father my babes." 

"Gods, Sansa, you could have chosen more wisely," he repeats, unsure whether he should curse himself or her. 

"More wisely, maybe, but not better." 

"And you truly believe that?" 

"I do." She lifted his chin slightly, to get him to look at her. He did so, reluctant only because if he looks at Sansa he won't be looking at Robb, and he already knows that the next time he sees his son he will be so changed -- whenever that is. 

Jon sighs. "What will people say, Sansa?"

"What they will," she replies, uncaring. "Being the queen does have its advantages." 

"And you will give them a prince with no father? I can be no proper father, Sansa."

"You will be as much or as little as you wish," she says, and he sees her hesitate. "It's been three years," she adds, quieter. "I will pardon you and you can come home to be with us."

"And Bran?"

"You think Bran did not know what he was doing sending you North?"

It's his turn to hesitate now, absently rocking Robb. "I think I was sentenced for a crime I committed. I cannot be the man you think I am if I accept."

"Damn you, Jon Snow," Sansa seethes, but he sees her tears are sorrow, and only part anger. "You cannot be a proper father if you are not _here._ "

"I do not fear for him. He has everything he needs here," Jon replies.

"We will not have _you_ ," she breathes, a couple tears finally escaping. His hands are occupied, so he kisses them away, feather light. 

"You will have me." He truly was torn. He could accept Sansa's offer, be here, and watch their son change hour to hour, day to day… but what would that say to his son? And the lords, if Sansa meant for him to rule alongside her? Ygritte is yelling at him somewhere, so loudly he can almost hear _you know nothing, Jon Snow_ in his ear. "I am yours, and you are mine."

His words are purposeful, another promise layered on top of the promises and oaths that he has already made. This one he will keep, and she will hold him to it.

\---

**iii. 4**

When Robb is just three years old, the Prince welcomes a little sister into the world. Her hair is a riot of black curls, eyes grey, and word has it she is screaming at the injustice of it all. Jon makes up some excuse about visiting the Free Folk that have settled further south, near Karhold and where the Dreadfort stands, now abandoned and silent. And if he is that close… why not stop in Winterfell?

"Hurry, Jon, Hurry," Robb commands him, pulling on his hand. 

"Robb," Sansa warns him gently, "mind your manners. We will be back in the nursery soon enough."

"But he has to meet her," he argues.

"I am hurrying, my prince," Jon assures him, sharing his amusement with Sansa over the boy's head.

The nursery is just as he remembers it from years past, if less crowded, and the nurse curtsies, interrupting her song to the princess. "She's only just woken, your grace," she said.

"Perfect timing," Sansa beams, taking the girl easily. "That is all for the afternoon, Wenda. The prince and I will be with the princess."

"Very good, your grace." Wenda bobs into a curtsy and is gone without a further word. She could have picked up her skirts and sprinted and it wouldn't have been fast enough for Jon. 

"Her name is Alys," Robb pipes up before his mother can say anything. 

"A good Northern name," he says, swallowing the emotion balled in his throat. Sansa hands her over to him, and she's not screaming now, but the look she gives Jon suggests she might start at any moment and has only ever belonged to one face he loves. "Gods, she looks like Arya." He thought she might, from reports of her coloring, but it's like seeing their younger sister in the flesh. 

Sansa smiles faintly, letting Robb tug on her hand. "I thought to name her for her, thinking that would please you. But if she ever makes it back here, I fear I would never hear the end of it." 

Jon laughs. "We would not," he agrees, though he partly wishes Sansa had named her for their brave, clever sister. "Have you heard from her?"

"Not especially recently -- five, six moons," she replies, with a light shrug. That was about as often as they could expect to hear from her. "She will return in her time."

"Who, mama?" Robb asks, fidgeting at her skirts.

"Your Aunt Arya," Sansa answers. "Remember? She killed the Night King and sailed across the western sea. She sent you the seashells, sweetling."

"I remember," he replies, as though he didn't just ask her for clarification. "Why does she have to be so far away?"

"Your aunt wished to see the world, my sweet," she returns.

 _Your aunt saw the world for what it was and burned it,_ a voice tells Jon, unbidden. He stills for a moment, sure his heart will crash through his ribcage. Sansa notices, putting a hand to her arm. "Why don't we go for a walk," she suggests.

"Yeah!" Robb cheers. He has little patience for sitting still, and loves to run and play and be as free as the sunshine in the yard. Jon fears for Sansa when it comes time for him to begin school lessons. "Did you bring Ghost?" he asks Jon.

John smiles. "Of course, he is always with me." 

Ghost waits for them in the yard, patient and gentle with the boy. For a time Jon was nervous to have Robb with Ghost, but it's almost as though Ghost knows that Robb is his, and Sansa's. They travel into the Godswood, where Robb chases after Ghost, and laughs when the direwolf nudges him over into the foliage. Soon Jon and Sansa settle under the weirwood tree, while Robb continues to chase Ghost -- or perhaps it's the other way around. 

He catches Sansa looking at him, with Alys now asleep in his arms, while Robb shrieks with laughter. "What are you thinking?" he asks.

"How glad I am you are here," she answers, contemplatively. "How sad I am that you will leave."

"I will not leave yet," he points out.

"I know." She sighs. He will be there for a few days' time, but then the white wolf with crow feathers will be gone again, and it will be the Queen and her wolf children.

"Tell me to stay, and I will." With one babe in his arms and the other laughing, he knows he won't be able to refuse her anything. "Offer again, and I'll accept." 

He partly hopes that she does, but she shakes her head and smiles gently. "I can't entice you against your nature, Jon, anymore than I can Ghost."

He looks in time to see Robb attempt to climb Ghost like a horse, only to fall off. "No, Ghost, hold still," he tells the direwolf, who makes a questioning noise as though to say to Jon, _this pup of yours is lucky he's cute._ "I should leave him with you," he says.

"Nonsense, we're very safe in these walls," Sansa replies in a tone that will brook no protest. "I can't imagine we're less safe than you are beyond the Wall. Brienne may take it as a personal affront."

"Well, I can't afford to offend Ser Brienne," he says, pretty sure that the in and out nature of things as they currently stand doesn't sit well with her. Why should it? 

Sansa shakes her head. "Never mind it," she says, and leans down to kiss Alys on the crown of her head before leaning up to kiss Jon. "We will have time enough before you disappear again."

\---

**iv. 2**

It is Prince Robb's fifth name day, and he requests -- _insists_ \-- that Jon Snow be present. Despite that he had been there a mere six moons previous, he agrees, saying he is unable to refuse a request from his prince. From his son may be closer to the truth, but the truth was still his and Sansa's alone. 

It is also the first time that he's seen Sansa swollen with child, and he nearly falls off his horse at the sight. He may well stare forever, except Tormund thumps him on the head, and Robb and Alys laugh. It's only their music that breaks the spell and allows him to dismount the horse. The children hold themselves back long enough for him to kneel in front of Sansa and kiss her hand, before rushing at him. His children overwhelm him, taking him to the ground, all three laughing.

Sansa eyes them with amusement, and greets Tormund in the meantime. "Another visit from a wolf, Lady Sansa?" he jokes with her merrily. "You might direct him to the back, sometimes, rather than letting him in the front."

Some lined up behind her are askance at this extremely familiar and forward greeting to the queen, but Sansa just laughs. "Are you well, Tormund? Taking care of that one?" She shifts her gaze to Jon.

"Aye. And he takes looking after, no mistake," he answers.

"I can still hear you," Jon informs them, back on his feet, Alys in one arm and Robb hanging on the other.

"Jon it's my name day tomorrow," Robb reminded him. 

"Yes, I know," he says, turning so they will face Tormund. "Do you remember Tormund, Prince Robb?"

"I doubt it, you were scarcely bigger than a good-sized rabbit last I was here," Tormund recalls, scrubbing a hand over his ginger beard and motioning with his hands the prince's approximate size.

But Robb nods -- even if he didn't recognize him, he knew who this must be. "You're one of the Free Folk," he said, and swept into a rather graceful bow for a five-year-old. "Welcome to Winterfell." 

Tormund throws back his head and laughs until it echoes and it sounds like the walls themselves shared in the mirth. "I thank you, little prince," he says, just as grandly. "That is how you greet a guest, crow," he tells Jon.

"Duly noted," he replies. Alys reaches for Sansa, and so even though it hurts him to do it he puts her back on the ground so she can go hide in her mother's skirts. For all that she looks like Arya, she has become her mother in temperament, exactly how Jon remembers Sansa in childhood. Even though she is young yet, almost two, Jon wants to believe she knows who he is to her.

"Jon, Brienne has started me on a training sword," Robb puts in excitedly.

"Has she? That's wonderful," Jon responds. Sansa had been reluctant, but Jon reminded her he was of an age, he and the elder Robb had been right around that age when Ser Rodrik first gave them training weapons. "And your other lessons? Are you listening to the Maester, and obeying your mother?"

"Yes," he replies dutifully, and eyes Longclaw, still strapped to Jon's hip. "I have to go later this afternoon. But can I show you the sword work first?"

"Robb, stop pestering Jon, he's only just arrived," Sansa admonishes him. "We will eat, and then you can show Jon your sword work -- if he agrees."

"I agree," he says softly, taken again with the sight of her. 

They eat the midday meal, nothing fancy but filling and by the warmth of a large fire. Robb babbles about lessons, and orders Ghost around like he is a lapdog instead of a beast that could eat him in two bites. Alys insists on her dolls having their own portions of meat and cheese, which she alternately eats herself and slips to Ghost under the table while Sansa pretends not to notice. He's almost jealous in a way. These special moments belong to all of them, but she has their day to day -- the milestones and triumphs, and he's even jealous that he's missed the tantrums and foul moods and sulks.

 _It's the eighth year of her reign,_ a voice assures him. _It won't be long now._

Even now, he doesn't know that his hope extends so far. He silences the voice, and concentrates on now. And now, Robb is showing him the forms Brienne has taught him. He is a little shaky, muscles not yet built up to withstand the effort, but he takes his time, patiently moving smoothly as he can with precision that Jon is sure neither he nor the elder Robb had at his age. Of course, Robb also has no other boy providing the joking distraction that only a brother can be. Robb pauses, after swinging his sword in an overhead arc. "… And that's all I know," he says, giving an unceremonious end to the demonstration.

"Very good," Jon praises with a smile. "Keep up that work and you'll be a proper swordsman yet."

"Thank you." Robb is glowing from the commendation, and Jon's heart pangs to see his brother's face look back at him. "Mama says you're the best. I wish you could teach me." 

He swallows. _I wish I could, too, sweet boy._ "We will be here a few days yet," he says instead. "Mayhap I will join you, if Brienne will permit it."

"Oh!" Robb nods enthusiastically. "I'm sure she will! She lets anyone who wants to try the swords, as long as they are old enough and follow the rules."

"Then I will do so." He spies movement in the Maester's tower, and glances to see the Maester, a man he does not recognize, eyeing them. "I think your Maester is waiting for you."

Robb then pulled a face. "Maester Rentier is always cross with me."

"I'm sure he's not always cross." It had felt that way, sometimes, as a boy. "Work hard at your lessons and you will find him easy to please, I'm sure." He offers a smile. "Now, go. Before he's cross with you for being late. I'll see you later."

"Promise?" he asks, putting the wooden training sword back where it belongs. 

"I promise," he swears, and satisfied, Robb runs across the yard to the Master's tower. Jon watches. Robb's limbs are already growing long and gangly; like his mother, he will be tall. Tall, and strong, and beautiful.

"So does the boy know?" 

Jon starts, and then releases his gasp harshly. For a man so large, Jon fails to understand how Tormund can be so fleet of foot when he chooses. He takes a split second to make his decision on how to answer, and says, "Know what?"

Tormund snorts and comes right up next to Jon, his normally sonorous voice lowered. "I may not have grown up in a fancy castle, crow, but I know how to count to nine, and I know how a man looks at a woman he loves. I even know how a man looks at his children, if you can believe that. And I know you could only lie for shit when you believed your Dragon Queen was going to burn your pretty kissed-by-fire sister." He pauses. "Do all southerners want to fuck their sisters? At least you're only half."

"No, that's--" This is so much more than what Jon wants to get into right this moment. "She's not my sister." He hopes Tormund doesn't ask for further clarification, and he doesn't. "And he doesn't know."

"So what does he call you?" Tormund asks.

His heart hurt. His son has never called him father. "He calls me Jon."

Tormund gives a sound of acknowledgement. Not good or bad, agreement or otherwise, at least so far as Jon can tell. But it's the sounds Tormund gives when he is -- unusually -- trying to be circumspect. "And is that your doing?"

"What makes you think it's not the queen's?" he retorts, annoyed and maybe ashamed at being caught and questioned. He and Sansa have agonized over these questions -- how open the secret was, should the children know, would it confuse them, and on and on, and these worries follow him back north every time he goes. 

"Because Sansa doesn't give a tinker's fart for the thoughts of others, she loves you. And she's a lot more patient with you than you deserve."

"Thanks for the reminder," he bites back at him.

"I live to serve," he returns, chilly as morning in the Frostfangs. "King Beyond the Wall."

"Don't call me that," Jon grouses.

"Ha! You think they're not?"

Jon doesn't answer for a long moment. "I don't want to be king of anything," he says tiredly. Why are people always trying to make him king of something?

"Nothing but your queen's snatch," Tormund replies.

"Mind your tongue," he snaps, and Tormund laughs, but does as Jon asks and doesn't delve further, passing over what Jon is sure are at least half a dozen more bawdy jokes and more ribald teasing. 

"My point, little crow, is that everyone knows, and they don't care," he adds. "Besides, all anyone has to do is look at that boy when he's in a sulk to know he's your get."

" _Tormund._ "

"When they speak of a wolf being father to the queen's children, everyone knows it is you. No one but a child believes that." He pauses. "Or a pervert, probably." 

It takes everything in Jon not to heave a sigh. "I have to go," he replies, turning.

"I suppose you may find better use for your mouth with your queen," Tormund admits with a laugh. Jon can only shake his head as he walks away.

Sansa is in her solar, writing a letter, and glances up only momentarily when he enters. "Gods, took you long enough," she says, dipping her quill and continuing to write. "I'm almost finished."

"Tormund knows," he says.

"I expect he does. Despite being an uncouth beast of a man, he has eyes," she replies without looking up.

"That's more or less what he said," he says, a little put out of his good temper. He doesn't look at Sansa, but he can feel her eyes on him. "Do you really not mind?"

"Mind what?" she asks, and there's a familiar pattern of scratching as she signs her name. "That I have two, almost three beautiful children? That I'm a person, and not a bargaining tool? That my husband in all but name is a wolf who lives elsewhere?"

His stomach is in knots at his feet. "Don't tease me, Sansa."

"I am not teasing you," she says kindly, pouring red wax onto the parchment and stamping it with the seal. Then, she looks at him. "Well, not on purpose." 

"Someone will say something to Robb," he says, words pouring out of him like water through a sieve. "Or he will hear something -- another child will become angry, or one of the lords will say something. I know you do not stand for talk and questions, but you know how people are." And moreover, she does not know how it feels to be a child and have to withstand an insult like _bastard._

Sansa's glance grew troubled. She rises to come to him and takes his hand in hers. "Are you saying we should tell him?" she asks, seriously.

And just like that, he's plagued with doubts again. "I… I do not know," he admits, though now he is also distracted by the shape of her, not just the planes and curves he knows by heart, but by her stomach, round with child -- their child. Gods, how can he leave? "May… may I…" he starts clumsily.

Luckily, as ever, Sansa understands him. "You needn't ask, Jon," she tells him with a musical laugh, and puts his hands to her belly. "If you hold still, she may just--"

"She?" he asks, even somehow knowing she's right. "Are you a greenseer as well now?"

She laughs. "It's more like it was with Alys than Robb," she said. "I suppose it's more of a feeling than anything else. Although the cravings with this one are much more… intense."

He's about to ask what the cravings are for, but the gleam in her eye tells him everything he needs to know about that. She leans up to kiss him, open-mouthed and hungry for him. It doesn't take much for him to be ready in return, lifting her and taking her to the adjacent chambers where she is satisfied, again and again and again. 

Jon feels the child move after, well into the night when Sansa is sleeping with his arms securely around her. "Hello," he whispers, feeling a little foolish. "I'm your father."

She kicks hard enough that Sansa groans, and he hushes her asleep again with sweet nothings and light kisses. His daughter tumbles again, and he lays still in amazement.

 _Soon_ , something else tells him, with a smile in its voice. _Soon._

\---

**v. 1**

Snows and matters north of the Wall keep Jon away from Winterfell for nearly a year. It's agony, and he waits for news of the birth of a new princess. Anyone who appears from the south is subjected to a third degree, and it's a travelling merchant with a brood of his own children in tow who tells him the Queen in the North had another daughter, kissed-by-fire and blue eyed, just like her. "That's lucky to you Free Folk, isn't it?" he jokes with a grin. "They call her Lyanna," he adds, "for little Lady Mormont, I think -- though, of course, that's an old Stark name."

Jon blinks back sudden tears. "Yes, I know," he says.

It's eventually Tormund who tells him to go, while there's a break in the weather. "If you don't want to be King Beyond the Wall, stop helping people and take care of your own self." He says it harshly, but there is something soft in his friend's manner, too, like he understands what sits deep in Jon's soul. So Jon does not protest. He promises to return to finish what they've started, takes Ghost and Longclaw, and makes for Winterfell.

The sky is grey as a dove the whole way, but it's only in the last hour that it begins to snow, biting flakes that sting his skin. The only way he can keep track of Ghost is his glowing eyes, guiding him back to Winterfell.

The gate opens to him, and it's only minutes before he is being shown to Sansa's solar by Brienne. "Out on a day like today," she tuts, and he nearly laughs. She sounds like a septa instead of the castle master-at-arms. 

"It's not that bad," he excuses, and the knight chortles. 

They let themselves in, and Sansa looks up in shock. "Jon!"

If she wants to show any restraint in front of Brienne, she doesn't, and he abandons it as well. He holds her tightly, her face nestled into his neck. He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. He's here.

"I'll tell Wenda to show the children up, following lessons, shall I?" Brienne suggests.

"Yes, that will be lovely," Sansa agrees, lifting her head to smile at Brienne. She falls back to where she fits perfectly against him in the next moment. "Why are you here?" she asks.

"Would you prefer I weren't?" he teases her.

"Of course not, you great fool." She kisses him, and he thinks maybe that is the perfect description: a queen and her fool. "You were unexpected is all."

"I couldn't stay away," he confesses, holding her a moment longer. "Are you really calling her Lyanna?" he asks.

"Of course." She smiles. "Come, she's sleeping by the fire."

Lyanna Stark is just as she was promised, her mother in miniature from the top of her flame-colored hair and Tully blue eyes to her dainty feet. She's all of seven moons old, larger than any of his other children the first time he met them, but he loves her no less. He thinks he spends hours just memorizing her, the little things and the large ones, but it must be much less than that before they are interrupted. 

Sansa has her then, when Robb and Alys come crashing into the solar, despite their nurse's admonishments to _stop running, greet your mother properly, not like a band of Wildlings._ "Jon!" Robb cries, excited, surging forward to throw his arms around him.

Jon nearly chokes at how much he's grown. "My prince," he addresses him formally, carefully. Alys hangs back at Wenda's skirts, chewing on a finger.

"Can you greet… Jon?" He doesn't miss how she stumbles over his name, like she doesn't want to say it, but with no other proper epithet to give him is only able to refer to him as such.

"Alys, don't you remember Jon?" Robb frowns at his sister.

"Jon has not been here for some time, and Alys may not remember, sweetling," Sansa tells him. The boy pulls a face -- gods, it's too early for him to wince when his mother calls him pet names, it has to be -- but he doesn't argue.

Jon goes to a knee, and grey meets grey as she stares at him curiously. "Good afternoon, princess."

Alys smiles, and blushes, telling him, "Hello," before making a break for her mother where she sits by the fire. "Mama, Lyanna."

"She's right here, sweetling, see?" Sansa says, leaning down to show that sweet, sleeping face.

The day is a happy blur. They have supper in the solar, and for a while it feels normal. Robb shows off his swordplay moves best he can, and Alys makes Jon kiss her doll's "wound" when the girl drops her to the stone floor, and Sansa laughs, keeping Lyanna close. They play games that Jon and Sansa had played when they were children -- this time, together. He lifts Alys to his shoulders so she can successfully win a round of Keep Away with Robb. He gets to see Robb be gentle with his sisters, and witness Sansa blush under a shower of kisses from their babes. It's enough to make him feel freer than he has in nine years. 

The time creeps later and later, and all five of them pile into the queen's bed for warmth and company. Jon tells them stories of the sights beyond the Wall, and southern places they've never been to -- would perhaps never go to. They fall asleep quickly, even Robb who insists he's awake enough to hear just one more and drops into a sweet, untroubled sleep between Sansa and Alys, who is curled into Jon's chest and breathes deeply and warmly into his neck. Lyanna wakes and begins to fuss, but before she can make too much noise Sansa has her on her breast, placating the hungry child.

Sansa is the one to interrupt the silence, low enough to not wake the children. "This is all I've wanted," she said. "Since I was Robb's age -- younger, maybe. To be with my family, and my babes."

"And queen to boot," he says. 

She smiles mildly. "Arya is back in Westeros," she replies instead.

His heart grows, and he breathes deeply to ease the sudden pain. "When were you planning on sharing that bit of information?" He's not angry, only shocked.

"I just did," she says, amused, reaching across the two elder children to stroke his hair. "The raven only came yesterday. She's in Storm's End, and who knows how long she may wish to stay there. They will visit Bran, she says, and then she will come north."

"Oh. Aye?" he says, trying not to imagine what that must look like.

Sansa grimaces, as though what she is about to impart causes her some pain to remember. "He made her an offer of marriage, the night he was legitimized and he gained Storm's End."

If Jon hadn't already been lying down, he could have been knocked over with a feather. " _Excuse_ me?"

"She refused," she says.

"Obviously?" What was happening? "When did you learn that?" 

"Just a few years ago, after his wife died. I think it hurt her to do it, but I think a part of him knew what her answer would be," she continues. "But they loved one another."

"He married, though?" Jon could have sworn that had been true. To some daughter of an exceptionally minor house who didn't mind their daughter being lady to a lord who had once been but the king's bastard.

"He did. Wolves mate for life, stags are more practical." She smirks at him. "She gave him a son, and a second died with her in the childbed. I don't know how Arya could know that, but perhaps to see him would be enough." 

It's still tumbling around in his head, half formed pictures that he doesn't want to dwell too heavily on. "So however long she may wish to stay," he echoes.

"Don't misunderstand me, I don't think she will have changed her mind in all this time," Sansa starts.

Jon gives a soft laugh. "I have never known Arya to change her mind, I don't know why she would start now," he said, "but it would be sweet to see her again." He looks down at Alys, still asleep with a fist curled into his tunic. 

"I agree," she says, switching Lyanna to her other side. "She'll be here, in time." With the babe settled, she looks back to Jon. "And so will you."

It had been so long. The closer they came, the less he let himself dream about it. Alys shifts in her sleep, and he kisses her on the head as she settles again. "It's still a year away," he says.

"And it's been many years since, and you deserve to be here as much as I do," she insists. He doesn't answer, for it would be a shame to ruin the happy day with self-doubt and shame he carries like another layer against the cold. "Unless you don't want to," she adds, uncertain.

"No -- of course I do," he says, and even though her shoulders sink in relief she still looks worried. "How could I not?"

"I don't know, Jon. I don't pretend to understand everything that goes through your head. I know you love the babes, and me, if the gods are good, and I know you would be happy here with us. But I also know you still hold on to the past. If you didn't, you would have accepted the pardon when I offered it, when Robb was still in arms. And sometimes I'm afraid you might love that exile and the feeling you are doing penance for someone you couldn't help more than any of that."

He doesn't mean to argue, precisely, but it doesn't matter because he can't. Everything she says is true, down to describing it as penance. Daenerys -- even a decade on he can't say what he feels about his aunt by blood. But she is not first in his heart, and never had been.

He really did know nothing.

"I suppose it's difficult to imagine change," he answers, looking back up at her.

Her eyes are shining with tears again. "Yes," she agrees, "change is difficult. It is painful."

"I don't know what my place here will be," he admits

"Your place is beside me," she says, in the same tone she once said _you are to me_ , when he protested he was not a Stark. "With or without a crown. Even if we never say the words in front of the Heart Tree. Until we are old and grey and Robb's children are the kings of winter, and then when we are ghosts here at Winterfell and our bones are dust in the crypt. You are not out of place here and your place will be whatever you want it to be."

If not for the children between them, he would reach out and kiss her now. "There is nowhere else I want to be," he agrees simply, and Sansa makes that choice for him. She turns, and carefully puts a sleeping Lyanna in the cradle before returning and stretching across Robb and Alys to kiss him. 

It lasts a long, long moment, before Robb grouses, "Mama, you're squishing me," as he tries to squirm away, still half-asleep.

She straightens, blushing. "I'm sorry, my sweet," she tells him. "Go back to sleep."

"Mama…" He starts as though to say something but falls back into his slumber so suddenly and perfectly that Jon does his damnedest not to laugh and fails. 

Sansa giggles too, in a way she hasn't in ages. "Oh, my boy, what will we do with you?" she asks no one in particular in amusement and leans down to kiss his auburn curls that have darkened slightly with age.

"We could tell him," Jon thinks out loud, and for a moment, Sansa's face in impenetrable. They'd talked of this when he was here a year ago, and many times before that. If it were a true secret, it would have been easier to justify, rather than one of just the open variety. "If you think it wise."

Her smile is small, but he thinks that may be because she thinks that if she lets all of her happiness shine through at once it will be gone too soon. "Tomorrow," she agrees.

\---

**+i.**

It's a strange thing, to have a day you'd long awaited finally arrive.

The raven came north, all the way from King's Landing, and the parchment is fine as cloth. The angular writing is in Bran's own hand, not the meticulous, uniform script of a court scribe. 

_May it be known that on this day, Bran Stark, first of his name, King of the Six Kingdoms,_ and so on and so on -- this was it. He can't bring himself to read the rest of it, in case he's wrong, or it's a dream. He only sees what is written beneath the seal. _Go home and kiss your babes for me, and love my sister as she deserves._ His heart is too full to even weep.

Tormund knows what the parchment means, and he won't hear of a goodbye. "Send word, and I'll be there to keep you company once you've put a fourth babe in your queen's belly and she decides she's tired of you," he says with a great laugh. "There is no Wall anymore. And maybe that's a good thing."

"Maybe so," Jon agrees. Walls in men's hearts are harder to tear down, but they say spring will be here soon -- maybe warmth will melt them the rest of the way.

He rides to Winterfell as fast as the horse will carry him. Ghost is like a pup again, jumping and chasing after snow hares and squirrels. He seems to be laughing, and Jon laughs too. He stops only long enough to spare the horse, riding through the night by the bright white moon and starlight, coming in sight of Winterfell as the sun begins to rise. The gate is open to him, and he hesitates only for a second before he rides into the yard.

The keep is still quiet. He thinks it's possible they are breaking fast, but he dismounts from the horse and listens. There's all the familiar sounds, Ghost panting behind him and the horses in the stables whickering. He hears a stern shout from the kitchens, which is soon followed by a kitchen boy scurrying along the wall and presumably out of the way of a wooden spoon. He listens for Sansa or their children, but is met by a quite different voice.

"Seven hells, you look like shit." 

And Jon turns, because he knows that voice anywhere. Arya is behind him, by maybe ten or so feet. She looks almost the same as she had the day they separated but is completely changed at the same time. Her skin is more tanned, there are small ornaments in her hair, still thick and dark, and he can see a couple new-old scars on her face. But Needle is still strapped to her hip, there are tears in her eyes, and she is smirking. He foregoes a witty comeback in favor of separating the distance and hugging her to him, sweeping her right off her feet. For a moment, they are six-and-ten and eleven again; her laughter tells him so.

He puts her back down and holds her at arm's length to examine her more closely. "You look beautiful," he tells her frankly, and even though Arya isn't the blushing kind, there's a flush to her cheeks.

"You still look like shit," she tells him. "But thank the gods you're here."

"How long have you been here?" he asks -- he wants to ask her everything, though he knows there will be time for that to come. 

"A few weeks," she replies. "Any longer and I was going to ride out to find you, but Bran wrote a few days ago saying to expect you. Sansa's been losing her mind." She then punches him in the shoulder, with a great deal more strength than he'd expected.

"Ow! What the hells is that for?"

"For being an idiot and not letting Sansa pardon you," she said. "For spending ten years beyond the Wall, so you could go sulk in peace while she was here putting up with everyone's shit, and the babes--"

"You know?" he questions. Their story has been smaller in a way than Arya's, but bigger in others. 

"I know enough," she replies dryly. "White wolf in a crow's cloak my arse. But I knew the pair of you would make beautiful children. Good thing they seem to be smart, like their mother."

He wants to protest, but he chooses to laugh instead, and pull Arya close again. "I've missed you," he murmurs into her hair. 

"I, you," she replies, and if he's not imagining it, she's a little choked up. He squeezes her a little more tightly, before he hears the voice he loves the most call his name, followed by the echoes of their children like the tinkling of bells.

"Jon!"

He waits a second, and releases Arya, giving her another smile. There will be plenty of time for him to listen to her adventures beyond the western sea and ask her about Gendry. And there will definitely be plenty of time for her to call him every name under the sun and probably a few he's never heard before. Plenty of time to laugh, and cry, and fight. And he can't wait for it.

He turns in time to see Sansa running for him, and he catches her easily, holding her as close as he possibly can. "I'm never leaving again," he announces to her, taking in every inch he can feel of her, and the scent of her hair, and the beautiful weight she makes in his arms. 

"No you are not," she agrees, and kisses him there, in the yard. Before, their kisses had belonged in the privacy of her rooms, or stolen in a hallway when no servants roamed by. Now they would see the sun and open air and be as free as Jon himself is.

The children have finally caught up to them, and it is that reason alone Jon releases Sansa at that moment. Lyanna walks now, mostly steady on her legs thanks to the patient help of her sister. Alys's face is beginning to lose the roundness of early childhood, thinning to more resemble the characteristic Stark face. He lifts up both girls at once, one in each arm, delighting in their laughter and kissing each of them.

Likewise, he only puts them down when he sees Robb, patiently waiting his turn. Usually brash and commanding attention, he hangs back a bit, with a tentative smile. It was as unnerving as how they'd parted. 

_As they'd agreed, Sansa (and Jon, though he'd mostly listened) told Robb that the wolf that gave Mama her babes was Jon Snow, the White Wolf. He'd simply blinked and said, "I know."_

_He remembered his blood running cold, as Sansa stilled. "You know?" she asked, keeping her voice light. "Who told you?"_

_"A three-eyed raven told me, in a dream," he said, and smiled at her._

It was unnerving in the matter-of-factness of it, and how he seemed unaffected by it. As though a three-eyed raven appeared to him regularly to give him information. Then again, maybe it did. Jon doesn't know. But what he does know is that his son is looking at him like it's the first time, and if he doesn't hold him right that second he will burst. 

Robb then rushes for him, and he lifts him up as easily as he had when Robb was still a babe, crushing the boy to him. His gangly arms and legs wrapped around Jon like he was holding on for dear life, and Jon was doing the same. It's amazing that he's able get a word out, but he does. Clear as the morning sky, he says, "Hello, father," and Jon is done for. He presses his face into Robb's hair, eyes shut tight, like he's afraid he will open them and this will all have been a dream. They will all disappear like smoke, and he will be left alone at the ends of the world. 

And then Sansa is there, on one side. Their girls cling to his legs, and even Arya smiles genuinely as she passes them to enter the hall. He lifts his eyes to meet Sansa's, and her watery smile is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "Welcome home," she tells him, as though it is the greatest thing she will ever tell him.

And it is great indeed. Winterfell is home, because it houses the people he loves the most. Maester Aemon once lamented that being fashioned for love was their great glory and their great tragedy. But from now, it would be his greatest joy.

"The breakfast is getting cold," Arya called to the five of them, from the doors to the hall. "Are you coming or not?"

Sansa laughs, a sound of pure elation. Jon kisses Robb's head, and puts him back on his feet. Sansa also kisses their son on the cheek, happiness overflowing inside of her. 

This is it. These people are his home.

"Coming," he answers happily.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment. I live for that shit. Comment notifications are twenty times better than crack in terms of a high.


End file.
